


The More the Merrier

by Lancre_witch



Series: Villains Club [4]
Category: MediEvil (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Oliver and this version of Lord Kardok belong to @evilblot, yes I finally got around to the cursed ship happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancre_witch/pseuds/Lancre_witch
Summary: Zarok calls in some help from a pair of "old friends". Pity it won't do their cause any good at all.
Relationships: Zarok/Lord Palethorn
Series: Villains Club [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1192753
Kudos: 4





	The More the Merrier

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank @evilblot on tumblr for the use of her characters and help with their speech patterns, and blame both her and @nebbychan for their involvement in me writing one of the weirdest ships yet.

Palethorn leaned uncomfortably against the cellar wall and tried not to clench his jaw. God alone knew what Zarok was planning to do. The dress he wore was unfathomably, impractically lacy with a rucked hem too high and far too sheer for the sake of decency.

"Must you show the entire world your ankles," he grumbled as Zarok hitched up his skirts to step over a trail of blood.

"Distracting you am I?"

"Just get on with it."

Once Zarok's back was turned again, Palethorn surreptitiously pocketed a protection charm. He didn't know what exactly Zarok planned to summon, but he knew the man well enough to know that he might not like it.

With the two interlocking pentagrams finished, Zarok stood back and raised his arms. Bars of light shot up from the lines on the floor, the lamps dimmed, and with far less fuss than his own summoning, two figures flickered into reality.

The larger one was clearly a centaur, the smaller - Palethorn squinted through the fading lines in the air - was apparently some sort of revenant.

"Lord Kardok," Zarok said proudly. "The champion of many a charge, finest generals of my army. And-" he sighed and gestured to the other man. "Oliver Veenstra."

The green skinned man shot a quick glare at Zarok, then bowed low. "'Tis a pleasure to maketh thy acquaintance, goode sir."

"Whit hae ye git us 'ere fer?" Kardok asked in a gravelly Scottish tone that just stopped short of incomprehensible.

"Fortesque's back," Zarok began.

"Aw heel!"

"And Reggie here -" he patted Palethorn's shoulder, moving aside just in time to avoid getting his hand swatted away - "needs our help."

"More like you need theirs. Since I summoned you, Fortesque's totalled my ship, damn near killed the Count, and utterly destroyed Iron Slugger-"

"Not to mention, he completely ruined my second best work dress."

Palethorn paused mid-rant. "Your second best- How many work dresses do you have? And why do you categorise them?"

"It was that that kind of blood orange one with the wide neckline-"

 _"'Blood orange',"_ Palethorn muttered in a half-hearted impersonation. "He's so pretentious... Shut up, it's fucking red. 'Blood orange'..."

"If ye twa are finished wi' yer wee lovers' spat, kin we git oan wi' things?"

"We're not partners," Palethorn snapped. "And unlike him I'm not a blatant invert."

Zarok glared at him. "For your information, most people that meet me don't know that I'm gay."

"Yes we do," Palethorn said.

Kardok snorted. "Blind 'n' deaf fowk know you're bufty."

"Dead people knoweth thou art gay," Oliver added.

Zarok glared at his subordinates then sighed.

*

The meeting room - or, in the interest of honesty, dining room - was crowded. Kardok had made place for himself and Oliver by stamping on anyone foolhardy enough to get in the way. The vampires had squashed up, one whimpering and nursing a broken foot, Jack was wedged up against the sideboard, and Zarok was practically in Palethorn's lap. As there wasn't much he could do about this short of throwing the necromancer across the room, Palethorn tried to ignore it.

"I'll start with the obvious. Kift and Fortesque are kicking our arses. We're not going to get anywhere with skirmishes in the streets. It's time we took the fight to them."

A vampire at the back raised their hand. "Er, how?"

Palethorn sighed. "That was going to be the second order of business. We've tried everything within reason, and then some."

"Fortesque is running around with some vampire now," the Count said. "I could perhaps convince them to slip some sort of potion into Kift's drink."

"What sort of potion?" Palethorn asked.

"Poison."

"That's not a potion."

"Yes it is," the Count argued. "Poison is a magical transmutation potion that transforms people into corpses."

"In that case, this knife is actually a magic wand," Jack said.

Zarok produced his own knife from somewhere beneath his skirts and twirled it entirely too close to Palethorn's face for comfort. "Meet me in the coach park for a wizard duel."

Palethorn plucked the knife out of the air and set his pistol down on the table. "Stop it, or I'll join in with a magic missile."

Zarok grinned and started to say something.

"Kin we git back tae th' plan?" Kardok said. "Some o' us hae things tae dae th'day."

Zarok closed his mouth in a frown.

"I suppose we could try out that new airship," Palethorn conceded. To his own surprise, he added, "Zarok, you're with me."

"Oh, most certainly." Zarok leaned across Palethorn's lap to retrieve his knife, taking entirely too long about it.

Palethorn cleared his throat. "Right. Let's get on with it then."

*

Zarok tried to brush the worst of the soot off his dress and looked at his blackened hand in disgust. "Well-"

"Not a word. Not one bloody word." Palethorn dropped the one surviving panel of his rocket ship and kicked it across the street.

"That was a resounding success, wasn't it."

"I said, not one word. I'm in no mood for it."

"Is everyone still alive, at least?"

Palethorn looked around. The bloody skeleton was long gone, and the mummy. Dogman was whimpering behind a pile of wreckage. Mander was trying unsuccessfully to extricate himself from a fallen chimney pot.

"Regrettably."

"You tried," Zarok said, patting his shoulder patronisingly.

"You know, sometimes I don't think you take me seriously," Palethorn muttered, glad his blush didn't show as Zarok brushed some brick dust off his lapel.

The sorcerer stepped back, frowning slightly.

"Really? There are times you think I do?"

Palethorn's fragile patience snapped. His hands gripped Zarok's shoulders hard enough to bruise, and pushed him back until the necromancer's shoulder blades hit the wall. Less that a second after the words had left his mouth, he was pinned against the brickwork, Palethorn snarling two inches from his face.

"I could send you back to hell in a second."

"I'll be sure to save a space for you." Zarok patted his cheek, apparently unperturbed.

His hand stayed there. Palethorn was about to push him away. He should have pushed him away, he should have turned away and left the skinny bastard there, but something made him pause. Some of Zarok's hair had fallen out of place. Thin and white as cobwebs, it hung to his shoulder, a slight curl in it from the pins. He really shouldn't hide it under all that-

No, no. Palethorn was determined to derail that train of thought before it left the station. Zarok was just a thin streak of bone wrapped in taffeta. Nothing about him was remotely appealing. Not those sharp brown eyes, nor his vicious smile, nor the way his collar bones slipped into view whenever he wore a wide necked dress...

Fuck.

He realised he was still staring. He realised that Zarok was smiling. Rational thought went out the window in the time it took for him to close the space between them.

The bastard had surprisingly soft lips.


End file.
